


The Spider

by bookworm231



Series: The Spider [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (And superheroes too), Am I Getting too ahead of myself here?, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Gen, Ginny needs a hug too, Magic and Muggles Oh my!, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Natasha Feels, Natasha Romanov/OMC - Freeform, Natasha-centric, Squib kicking ass, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 02:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5029486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm231/pseuds/bookworm231
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the Chamber of Secrets caused more permanent damage? What if little Ginny Weasley is left without magic? The first instalment in a three-part series detailing the transition of Ginny Weasley into our favorite BAMF, Natasha Romanov</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there!  
> Welcome to my first installment of the work that has been plaguing my brain for years. Basically since the first Avengers movie spiralled my fall into an obsession with Marvel and Crossover fics. The prompt for all this?  
> "You and I remember Budapest very differently"  
> And for some reason my mind jumps to magic. Anyways...  
> I hope you enjoy, and please let me know of any spelling/grammatical errors that I can fix!  
> The first 5-6 chapters have been fully written, as have bits and pieces of the sequels, which I will be posting randomly as the urge strikes, so look forward to those!
> 
> Warnings for the first chapter:  
> Minor allusions to inappropriate touching of a minor made in the first several paragraphs. You can skip those easy.

PART 1

 

She comes to herself slowly, in pieces at first, drifting in and out of consciousness. She struggles to awaken, eyes too heavy to open, and mind too fractured to focus. She is in chaos, not knowing what was, and what wasn’t, what is now and what is no longer to be. She remembers Tom Riddle, of course she does. He was her best friend, her closest confidant. She had trusted him with her heart, her soul. She still cannot grasp the consequences of that.

No longer capable of magic, she hears Dumbledore telling her parents while she lies, still as death in the hospital wing.

No longer capable of magic, he had said, as if those words could fully explain the pressing weight that keeps her tethered to the bed, making each movement unbearable. The feeling of something crawling under her skin haunts her; she can feel the ghost of his hands on her body, keeping her company, keeping her heavy and limp against the bed. The days pass, and she tries not to sleep. Every waking moment may be agony, but in her dreams Tom still calls to her, and she fears submitting to him one more time. The Healers are powerless, potions no longer work on her muggle body, and they have no knowledge of alternative medicines. So she withers, feeling violated and broken, as if Tom’s hands had not only been on her, but in her, holding her soul, and taking pieces of it with him.

Weeks pass, and the end of term arrives with no solutions from the greatest medical minds. Magic, once gone, cannot be replaced. This is the fundamental law of the magical world, this is the gift, born to a select few, of which she has squandered and lost through her own misguided and careless acts of trust. She is sent away from Hogwarts quietly, and with no great amount of shame, never again to see the great halls her family roamed for centuries. The Burrow is much the same. Once her childhood refuge now serves only as a bitter reminder of all she has lost. The touches of magic that make it a wizarding home simply alienate her from her family.

Her mother, naturally, tries to make the best out of things. In the past, this had merely resulted in creative ways to recycle clothing and feed a family of nine on a limited budget. Molly had thought, rather selfishly but lovingly all the same, that her daughter coming home full-time would result in quality time, moments of womanly wisdom, passed on from mother to daughter to create a closer bond with her youngest, and arguably most troublesome child. She should have known that her daughter had all the fierceness of her brothers, and little of Arthur’s gentle temperament. Knitting had long since been known as the lost cause, and cooking was certainly following suit. Her daughter was simply not content with being a homemaker.

The summer continues, and Ginny remains passive for the large part. She does not engage, is easily fatigued, and lacks the tenacity or temper that made her the most formidable of the seven children. Molly and Arthur, uneasy with her drastic change in character, refuse to take Dumbledore’s word that ‘all will be fine given time’, and take Ginny to see the MindHealers of St. Mungo’s. The most common diagnosis is ‘melancholia’ and the treatments seem to vary from Healer to Healer. On the advice of the Healer most well liked by the family, Ginny was enrolled in muggle secondary school, to keep her active, out of the house, and engaged in ‘meaningful work’. With funding from Dumbledore, a ‘reparation fee’ which they weren’t about to argue with, they manage to enlist Ginny in several extra-curricular activities she seems keen for. School is a battle, as getting Ginny out of bed is a job in itself, but they push on, and keep her attending swimming, ballet and surprisingly martial arts classes, as much as they can. There are the bad days of course, where no matter how much cajoling, pleading, bribing and forcing won’t get her out of bed, but as the year passes, those grow fewer and further between.

The summer once again arrives, and sightings of Ginny are harder to come by as Harry takes up residence in their home. Gone before breakfast and back past supper, she claims to have eaten at a friend’s house before holing herself up in her room for the night. Telling herself to believe Ginny when she says she is off having fun with her muggle friends, Molly turns her attention to her children away at the Quidditch World Cup and then the Triwizard Tournament. Honestly, what is Dumbledore thinking hosting a lethal competition at the school?

She’s right; things only go down hill from there. The house is in shambles as June arrives, and the Burrow is packed up for the first time in their married lives; transporting their belongings to the childhood manor of an escaped convict and his rabid House Elf.

It is only when they receive Ginny’s yearly school report via muggle post does Molly realize she had not thought of transferring Ginny to a school in London for the new year. Ashamed, and more than slightly horrified at herself for loosing track of one of her children, she scrambles to enroll Ginny in a safe school close to the safe house, and secures Ginny’s place in an elite dance academy and Sunday afternoon Judo sessions with a little help from Dumbledore. He certainly owes them a favour or two, she rationalizes.

Once the school shopping has been completed, she sets herself to the task of making Number 12 inhabitable for humans. Trusting the safety of her daughter’s transit to school with Arthur (who ensures her that the muggle underground is perfectly safe) she turns her energy to the needs of the Order, and hopes that the coming war will not be as destructive as the one some 16 years prior.

 End Part One


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein things actually start to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> Long time no see, I know, but I figured I may as well post as much as I can before this week of classes starts up again. Same goes for last chap, please let me know of any spelling/grammatical errors! It would be really appreciated (as would any feedback!)  
> Thanks for reading!

PART 2

Now used to her mother’s confused and distant looks, and her father’s absent-minded ways, Ginny allows herself to be dragged out of the countryside and into London. She was tiring of her little village community in any case, and is eager to explore the wider reaches of London. Wandering around the Underground, she becomes acquainted with the tracks and pockets of oblivious travelers. She spends the majority of the humid summer days acquiring quite the magpie’s pile of treasure. She learns her ways around the streets, and becomes knowledgeable as to which neighborhood gangs to be weary of, and which can be approached for a bit of bartering.

It’s on a particular hot and muggy evening in early August when she finds herself outside. She’s smoking a cigarette, eager to escape the stifling atmosphere inside headquarters. Ron and Hermione are irritating, fighting and flirting in equal measure while refusing to admit that they’re into each other. She inhales, feeling her lungs protest, before exhaling a puff of smoke, watching as the little cloud floats away. She rests her shoulders against the brick wall of the alley and tries to relax, giving herself five minutes to breath before returning to Number 12. The sound of footsteps coming her way makes her focus, and she watches from the side of the ally as a grimy, pudgy looking man covered in soot races down the street as though the devil himself is on his heels, with – was that a cauldron under his arm? Distracted, but not completely oblivious to the sound of thundering feet not far behind, she observes as the thief, newly named ‘Piggy’ in her mind, skids left at the crossing. Sure enough, as soon as the man turns the corner three goons come barreling into the alley, obviously chasing after him. They reach the intersection in the alley and the two stupider stop and take a rest, panting heavily with hands braced on knees. The third one, the leader of the little group, catches sight of her and straightens from his hunched over place on the brick wall, ambling his way towards her. He rearranges his face into what would have been a menacing snarl had he not been so painfully out of breath. She names this one ‘Big Boy’.

“Oi! You there!” he shouts at her.

She blows a puff of smoke at him in response, eyes narrowing in amusement as she seems him obviously feeling the distance between him and the thief growing with every passing second.

He prowls towards her, gait slow and heavy as he tries to regain his breath.

“You better tell me where ‘e went in the next three seconds or else that pretty face of yours ain’t gonna be so pretty no more.”

Raising an eyebrow at Big Boy’s attempt to cower her, she merely tips her head to the left, baring her throat while indicating the side alley the thief had run down. Looking back at him, she sees him gulp as she brigs the cig back to her lips. She hides a smile, pleased.

Before he can turn around completely, she gives a good sharp whistle. Startled by the sound, he turns to look at the girl, who now has her right palm up, reaching towards him while the left dangles the lit cigarette from her fingertips. Big Boy scowls and spits at her, before reaching into his pockets and throwing her a packet of fags. Grunting at the two others, he leads the off once again after the little thief, eager to get the chase over and done with.

She waits until they’re well out of sight before sighing, pocketing the newly acquired cigs and stomping out the remains of her own. When she looks up, she is unsurprised to see the thief, Piggy, come into view in front of her. She had seen him re-enter the alleyway when Big Boy had been turning around, and had whistled to get his attention, warning him that the boys were still in the alley.

A slight coughing sound comes Piggy, and she takes the time to study him now. He’s a short man, with straggly greasy hair and a tangled beard. He cradles the stolen cauldron carefully in his right arm while scuffling nervously towards her. His little eyes are tired and bloodshot, and even from here she can smell the tobacco and alcohol wafting off him like particularly rancid brand of cologne. Piggy had definitely been the right name for this one.

“Err – thanks for that miss, truly, my sincerest and most profound gratitude-”

 She pushes off the wall, interrupting him by pointing at the cauldron and saying “Do you even know what that is?”

He fumbles, nearly dropping the cauldron before looking at her with surprise, “Do you?”

They eye each other for a bit before accepting the impasse.

“Mundungus Fletcher” he says, extending his left hand, which is greasy and sweat soaked, for her to shake. “But you can call me ‘Dung. Everyone else does.”

She snorts, Piggy indeed.

“Pleasure,” she says, releasing his hand. “Ginny Weasley.”

His eyes widen comically, and this time he actually does drop the cauldron. He lets loose a low and appreciative whistle as he eyes her up and down. “You wouldn’t happen to be the little red head terror messing around with Arnie’s gang now would ya?”

She smirks, pleased that she’s made a name for herself from that debacle. The arrogant prick had thought she was fresh meat ready for the taking when she had been coming home from dance late one night. Needless to say, Arnold ‘Arnie’ Armstrong would now be walking a bit more cautiously around town, and maybe with a bit of a limp.

“And,” Piggy continues, “with hair like that, there isn’t by chance a relation to the lovely Mrs. Weasley putterin’ around a certain Number 12, now is there?”

She stiffens, eyeing him uncertainly, but nods her head all the same. Piggy’s a member of the Order then, though obviously one of less moral standing and pedigree than the others she’s encountered thus far.

“Darlin’,” Piggy says, a wild grin spreading across his face, “I think this might just be the beginnings of a most marvellous partnership.”

End Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, please let me know what you think! Part Three should be up sometime next week!


	3. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short interlude to get things moving.

**INTERLUDE**

        She comes home to find Number 12 in an uproar.

        A cacophony of voices great her at the foyer, each trying to talk above the other and she’s surprised she hadn’t heard her mother’s hysterics competing with the late Mrs Black from outside. Sirius is pacing the length of the foyer, furious and trapped in the manor as members of the Order rush to the floo or push past her, running out the door. Owls are flying everywhere, papers and feathers swirling in miniature cyclones on multiple surfaces.

        Ginny freezes on the threshold, shocked at the amount of chaos she hasn't seen since moving in day. She is forced aside rather abruptly by the snarling form of professor Snape, followed by a visibly angered Dumbledore, whose eyes search hers briefly before rushing out the door. She scurries into the dining room, where Ron and Hermione are hassling anyone they can, trying to find out what the hell is going on with little success. She hides in the corner of the room, cobwebs and peeling wallpaper beside her as she searches for her father in the mess. He's in the corner, using the top of the old haunted piano as a desk, and writing furiously. No sooner has an owl taken his last missive does he begin the next, sweat on his brow and arms shaking, he snaps a quill, swears violently under his breath before thanking Hermione softly when she passes him a fresh one.

        She turns when 'Mad Eye' Moody leans on the wall behind her, crushing a busy spider under his girth and sending out a plume of dust as he leans against the ageing wall. They cough slightly, waiting for the dust to settle before she leans over to speak in his ear.

        "What did I miss?" She says as softly as possible, weary of being noticed by her mother, who at this point is vowing curses on 'Mundungus Fletcher, that little rat, oh I'll show him!'

        Startled, Ginny shifts her focus to Moody, now slightly more determined to find out what happened, and how the little thief she had met not some thirty minutes prior could have caused this much chaos in his absence.

        'Mad Eye's eye revolves around the room, always on the lookout, before growling softly  
         "Well quite a bit little missy," he chuckles a bit, answering her previous question, before adding, "you know by now the guard we have on your little boyfriend yes?"

        Ignoring the way she bristles at the implication, he continues, "Well it seems a member of the Order was a wee bit late in gettin' to his post. Now we both know Potter, and his penchant for gettin’ in trouble as soon as the eye is turned," he illustrates this by rolling his eye in a nauseating pattern, his scared face twisting into a grotesque attempt at a grin. "Well when the back was turned, a couple o' dementors came out to pay your boy an’ his cousin a bit of a visit if you get me drift." He pauses, scanning the room, and she notices Ron and Hermione trying to be subtle in their eavesdropping of Moody's version of events.

        "So the boy casts his patronus, an’ a good thing too otherwise him an' his cousin would'a been goners, but now the Ministry is tryin' to get him expelled for performing magic outside of school, an' in front of a muggle to boot."

        At this point Hermione can no longer contain herself and interjects,

        "But the statute says in dire situations-"

        "That it does lass."

        "- And it's Harry's cousin, not some random muggle, surely because of their knowledge of magic he wasn't actually breaking           the Statute-"

        "I'm sure it wouldn't have been a big deal for anyone else Hermione, but remember this is Harry Fucking Potter we're talking about,” Ron interjects, “and there's obviously someone out to get him again this year." He pauses, looking pleased with himself as Hermione stops and thinks about that.

         "Exactly boy!" Moody booms as Ginny sneaks away, eager to escape now that she's got some information to go on. "Good skills of observation this one has! CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

        There's an awkward moment of silence as that outburst from Moody breaks through the activity of the others in the room, but soon enough Molly screeches at the children to get up and out of the way, to leave these things to the Order, and soon the staircase is full of thundering steps of the Weasley clan making its way out of mother's ire.

        Ginny follows more slowly, wondering to herself as she makes her way upstairs, careful to step over the flesh coloured string the twins had left lying around, at how such a small conversation with a little thief in an alley had had such a large effect. If she still had magic, she wouldn't have been out there, and Fletcher probably wouldn't have been delayed in getting to his guard duty. She pushed those thoughts aside, long past spending her time dreaming of 'what if' scenarios where she still has her magic and still believes in Harry Potter. Shaking her head, she focuses instead on the present, on the power she had to disrupt the Order and create such chaos with but a conversation. With a quirk of her lips and a mischievous gleam in her eyes, she makes her way upstairs, back tall, head high, and humming Tchaikovsky's pas de deux for the Black Swan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (23/10/15 - Just fixed some formatting problems)


	4. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so Ginny’s life of discovering London’s second, and much more nefarious underground network, begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like it, this chapter was a doozy to write.

PART 3

      And so Ginny’s life of discovering London’s second, and much more nefarious underground network, begins.

      Dung takes her everywhere, meeting all his contacts, (squibs, muggles and low-level magic users alike). She watches his business deals, analysing them afterwards, picking out what could have been better or worse. He is very pleased with his role of mentor, though she less so as she trails after his smelly ass, being chased by people they shorted on deals more likely than not, with Dung laughing all the way.

      She loves it.

      He takes her out of simple pick-pocketing and petty thefts and brings her into a life that can actually turn a profit. Gone are the stagnant days of summer, now are the days of high adrenaline foot chases through the back alleyways of London, of bringing smuggled rune stones to her dance classes, and magic snake venom in her lunch bag to school.

      It was a tricky thing, keeping a good school and work balance; what with needing to maintain good grades to keep her scholarship, dancing everyday after school, and mixed martial arts at the dōjō on Sunday's, let alone her extra extra-curricular activities with Dung. They make it work though, and she becomes a common sight on the blurred edges of knockturn alley, dashing from her latest sale back to class before the end of lunch break.

**\--------**

      It must have been mid-November when she has the idea that turns their 'two-man business' into a solid enterprise. She’s in her Fifth form chemistry class, tired and impatient, ready for school to end so she can get to dance. Auditions are today for the soloist part in this year’s performance, and she’s been working on her piece since September. She barely focuses on her chem teacher, mind jumbled with thoughts of her upcoming audition, and how her and Dung are going to settle the dispute with the vampires who claim they were given dirty blood (which they were, but still, bad talk was bad for business). She also has an upcoming sales pitch with amateur potioneers who are interested in getting their products on the market. She’s planning on coming in with a 30% cut, they would likely low-ball with 2-5%, she would accept no less than 15%.

      "Now class, see here the hexagonal shape that this compound takes on. Now what we are looking at here is the base makeup of cannabis, the plant from which marijuana derives. Now there are many other uses for the cannabis plant, or hemp as it may be called..."

      Startled out of her musings, she sits up, startled as the beginnings of an idea start to take root, mind whirring as the teacher details the properties cannabis as a compound and describes the double and single bonds that keep it together.

      She jumps when the bell for class goes off, and hurries to pack her things, joining the mass of students eager to escape from school. She goes on autopilot, going through the motions, mind still miles away until she finds herself in the middle of the studio, pointe shoes laced and her ballet instructor yelling in her face.

      She's startled, looking around at the girls sitting on the sides of the room, giggling and whispering to each other, at the choreographer in his chair, looking bored, and then at her instructor who is still yelling at her.

      “God I don't know where you are today Ginevra, or what's going on, but you know what, I don't care. You come here to dance, so fucking dance and leave the boyfriend at home.” He huffs angrily, before turning his back and walking toward his chair by the piano. His fingers tap a staccato on the piano lid, signaling for the pianist to start again, and he sits down, eyes on her, brows furrowed and mouth twisted in displeasure. Ginny breathes, looking at herself in the mirror, centering herself, focusing on the music .

      She listens for the intro, settling in the present with all the determination she has. Her Sensei’s voice in her ear, inhaling and exhaling, nothing else. She breathes, and then she moves; arms rising gracefully overhead as the piano trills softly. She rises gracefully up onto her toes with the gentle swell of the music, and she floats across the stage, skirts trailing behind her as she moves. Her face shows only the pain of the loss of her lover and she goes through their pas de deux, retracing their steps on her own.  She pauses, lifting one foot of the floor, spinning in a perfect pirouette before suddenly leaping across the stage, suddenly filled with energy,. She jumps, in increasing in heights until she can go no higher, until she can no longer continue, and collapses on the floor, legs, heart, mind, no longer able to contain her grief.

      The music comes to a stop, and she startles as the dancers watching her start clapping and whistling, praising her performance.

      Distantly she hears her teacher say, “Now that's what I'm talking about! That's my girl! Now if only you could have done that the first time!” He walks up to her, and turns his back, looking at her in the mirror, “Just be careful, when you do the port-de-bras after that first section, make sure to leave space, the neck, the arms, lengthen- yes that's it Ginny.” He nods as she goes through the positions, before he turns to face the other dancers in her class. “Now, who wants to go next?”

      She scurries out of the way, still startled that she had managed to center herself so fully that she had almost been absent, while also being entirely present. Sensei would be proud, they had been working on this level of meditation for the past couple months.

\------

      The deal goes well. The potioneers grudgingly settling on 16% for her services in the distribution and marketing of their products, and include a hefty bonus for every client she signs.

      She nearly runs all the way back to Grimmauld, thoughts she'd been keeping at the back of her mind since school coming rushing back, and she's eager to see what Dung thinks of her idea. She rounds the corner into what had been quickly dubbed ‘their’ alleyway, and almost smacks right into him. He grabs her sharply and pulls her with him around the corner, crouching behind a nearby skip. She’s practiced enough in this that she can contain her sigh of irritation, and waits impatiently as they hide from the people chasing after Dung yet again. Finally, the crooks decide the thief must be long gone and head further into the maze that is London. Pushing Dung off of where he’s huddle practically on top of her, she grumbles as she picks bits of trash out of her clothes and hair for what must be the third time this week.

      “We’ve really got to stop meeting like this,” she grumbles, though smiles slightly at the sight of Dung trying to get himself out of the bin she’d pushed him into. She laughs, finally giving in and helping him out, giggling at the amount of rubbish clinging to him.

      “Well you’re in a good mood today lass,” he says with an unhappy twist to his mouth, which lets up as she peels with laughter at the rotten food sticking out of what little hair he has on his head.

      “Alright, alright, that’s enough,” he grumbles, dusting himself off. “Now, what had you in such a hurry to see me? How did your dancin’ go? You didn’t fall did ya? No, ‘course you didn’t. It must have been those overgrown dungeon bats then. They didn’t give you too much trouble did they?”

      “No, no, that was fine, plus you know I can take care of myself!”

      “‘Course you can luv,” he says with a laugh, “give ‘em the ol’ one-two and they’ll be runnin’ for cover!” He chortles, but sobers quickly enough when she raises her arms up, fists clenched in the classic boxer’s pose.

      “So, tell me, what happened.” he says, raising his hands up in surrender, “An’ you better have gotten that part cuz I got a wager goin’ with Ol’ Man Gus down the way.”

      “Dung!” she says laughing, “You should’a told me! I would’a made sure to dance extra specials”

      “Ah I’m sure you did just fine lass,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Now, what’s this thing that I absolutely gotta know?” he asks. So she tells him about the idea she had, and watches as his mouth turns up into an eager grin and the cartoon money signs almost visibly dance around him as he thinks about the profits they’re about to make.

      “All right princess, alright. I can’t say this won’t take a lot o’work, an’ we’ll have to be mighty careful wit’ this you hear? Ain’t never done nothin’ like this before, but doll this is solid gold this is. I would kiss ya if I didn’t think you’d have my balls for tryin.’”

      She laughs, pleased and excited about the future, before punching him in the stomach as he leans in to try.

      She walks towards Number 12 with a hop in her step and a smile on her face as Dung trails behind her, grumbling and limping all the way.

\--------

      They sorted through their contacts for people who could be of use, and people who could be trusted. Still, they had to be cautious, compartmentalizing information from person to person, never letting anyone know of they’re full plan until the very end. While they were no expert in Potions, they were in ‘the real side’ of business, and knew how easily ideas could be stolen; after all, they did it all the time.

      Ginny’s idea was simple in itself. What would happen if muggle drugs were added to magical potions? Everyone knew that muggle drugs as they were had little effect on a magical person, the magic in their blood quickly metabolising through the ‘poison’. If any effects were felt they were largely negative, the lows without the highs, so to speak. But muggle plants were added to magical potions for their properties as neutralizers, capable of being an inhibiting agent or a catalyst. That must mean that they have powerful properties to handle magical elements, right? This had been Ginny’s brainwave in her Fifth form Chemistry class, and when broaching the idea, it seemed simple enough. They would simply need to experiment.

      Which they did.

      A lot.

      Weeks turned into months and they had nothing to show for it. They would have given up completely by now if they hadn’t been so bloody determined to make it a success.

      Finally, the accidental breakthrough they were hoping for. Mid May, and a young potioneer makes a truly rooky mistake of mixing up potions ingredients. They were still cleaning up the resulting explosion, which was caused by a handful of powdered Ecstasy instead of pixie dust being added to a boiling cauldron. Those who had been unlucky enough to inhale the fumes caused by the disaster were still high as kites, a full week later. Excited by their success, it seemed this was all that was needed to get the ball rolling. They were soon launching their ‘magic pills’ to the lower end clientele of Knockturn alley. In quick succession, their attempts at muggle hallucinogenic mushrooms with Pepper-Up Potions, and Ecstasy with Invigorating Elixir became their two most popular products; Marijuana and Calming Draught right behind in third place for most saught after drug in magical London. The effects would vary from person to person, and especially so between magical creatures, but D&G magic pills are sure to provide an unforgettable experience, or so their campaign says. Within a year, word of mouth leads to the massive success of their products, and Ginny and Dung have amassing fortunes to their names.

      The end of the school year goes by in a blink of an eye, and suddenly Ginny’s family is forced to evacuate Grimmauld Place in fear that the location has been compromised with the death of Sirius Black and Kreacher’s betrayal. Refusing to go back to the Burrow, and managing to convince her mother that changing schools yet again would only cause her unneeded distress, they reach a compromise. Ginny would stay with Bill at his apartment in London during the summer, and they would revisit the topic before the school year began if Grimmauld was still deemed uninhabitable.

      Exhausted, and eager to get back into the rhythm of things, she makes herself scarce, especially when Bill has his girlfriend Fleur over. Bill thinks nothing of it, his little sister must simply  have a large group of friends that keep her out at all hours in the summer months. Besides, his little sister has gotten the soloist role in her junior dance company and she has that thing on Sunday's where she hits people for fun. On those nights she always comes home grumbling that her Sensei is always murmuring at her to focus, but she finds that hard to do with him saying it all the time in her face. He laughs, and puts thoughts of her comings and goings out of mind.

      The school year arrives, and Ginny is allowed to stay with a Bill to finish her  last two years of schooling in London. By now her and Dung’s business has had an incredible effect in shifting and modernizing drugs in the magical world. She hears Fred and George praise whoever got magic pills to be ‘cool’ because their potion products are just flying off the shelves, and she smiles to herself, pleased. When Bill comes home from work complaining that the goblins are showing up high, which only serve to make them even more irritating, she can't help but laugh in his face.

      The fun times aren’t made to last, however. As the year goes on and the attacks on muggle London increase, her mother’s worry over her safety becomes much more urgent. She begs to be allowed to continue school where she is, at least for this year. Her mother can’t force her to do anything anymore, and they both know it. It’s only when Dumbledore dies later on in June that she starts to take her mother's worries of an upcoming war seriously. She talks to Dung about it, and he agrees that it’s high time to go underground, so they look for someone willing to buy up their little company, and scamper.

      It’s midway through July the days getting longer and grimmer with each turn, and they spend most of their days in furious negotiations with potential buyers, eager to get rid of their business but not wanting to leave without a profit.

      They're sitting side by side in the back room of a bar that's ten years past decrepit, both of them tired after a long week of fruitless negotiations to get their recipes and products into the hands of a suitable buyer. The distant sounds of a clan battle can be heard taking place in the bar proper, and they only move from their seats when a pair of snarling werewolves barrel into the room, crashing through the door as they snarl and tear at each other with human hands half formed into paws. Ginny and Dung stand in unison, the later with wand raised and the former holding a packet of powdered silver in her palm.

      A high pitched whistle causes everyone to cringe, and they watch startled, as the two snarling men are ripped apart seemingly by thin air. The werewolves scamper away, cowering as a man walks into the room, face in his trademark scowl, robes billowing behind him as he stalks forward. He dismisses Ginny and Dung with a glance and waves his wand at the broken door absentmindedly, repairing it without word. He sits, Ginny and Dung following suit, dazed at the sight of the man in front of them.

      “Well well well, isn’t this a surprise,” he drawls, black eyes glimmering as he looks between the two of them, face devoid of any emotion. Ginny fights the urge to fidget as the man who killed Dumbledore just weeks before looks her square in the eye. She sees Dung twirling his wand anxiously between his hands, obviously uncomfortable in the presence of a former Order member cum Death Eater.

      Waiting for Dung to start the conversation is obviously useless, so she sighs, mentally preparing herself for the shit show that's about to happen. She leans forward, clasping her hands together and braces her arms on the table in between them as she fights to keep a meditative state of mind.

      “So,” she starts slowly, fingers ticking against each other as she watches Snape for any sign of emotion, “a deal we literally can't refuse hmm?” She asks, referring to the words their contact had said of this potential buyer.

      “Indeed Miss Weasley. My current, hmm, employer, has been keeping track of your little devious duo for a while now, and was quite amused at how your little ‘magic pills’ had such a devastating effect on the population. He is quite eager to get his hands on the little recipes you've managed to come up with after all this time.”

      Ginny snorts, “Are you sayin’ the famed Professor Snape couldn't guess how we did it?” She says with glee.

      “You forget your place Miss Weasley,” Snape retorts, an evil twist to his lips, “You come here with nary a disguise, not even a glamour on your faces, and you think you have the power here? Do you know how many people would kill to know the identities of the people behind the products that literally tripled magical London’s addiction rate overnight?” He snarls, incensed when Dung chortles and sits back in his chair, letting Ginny tackle this one.

      She smiles at him in response, looking at Snape with her most innocent face, fluttering her lashes and shifting her posture to seem non threatening and helpless, just a sweet little teenage girl.

      “And who would believe you?” she says, voice honey’d venom as she chews on imaginary bubble gum. Snape blinks at the shift, and she continues, “Sweet little Ginny Weasley,” she flutters, “poor little doll, did you hear? Oh it was some time ago now, but shame, the poor dear had an accident of some sort at Hogwarts and she’s a squib now, did you know? The poor thing, I don’t know I would do as a mother to that child,” she tsks and shakes her head, arm searching all the while for the wooden spike she keeps hidden in her purse for occasions such as this. She’s not sure whether the rumours regarding her former Professor hold any truth, but a stake to the heart should do suitable damage in any case. “And Mundungus Fletcher?” she continues with a laugh, “the alley rat, a member of a highly organized criminal enterprise? Ha!”

      Snape’s expression is sour as a lemon. “Nevertheless,” he says bitingly, “there are many important figures at play in this world who know to value my word over all else.” Dung’s posture stiffens at the thinly veiled threat, and he asks, speaking for the first time in the meeting,

      “What’da’ya want Snape?” he says, “What’s got your business so interested in ours?”

      Snape pauses, looking at him before saying, “This is an area of, shall we say, special interest, to certain parties of which I am acquainted. As a Master in potions it was obviously tasked to me in approaching the sellers of such an, enterprise as this.” He looks at them both, focused and determined to be out of here as soon as possible. “I have a generous sum to offer both of you in exchange for complete silence in regards to the buyer. I’m interested in purchasing your entire stock of inventory, ingredients, cauldrons, and brewing facilities.”

      Dung whistles, “That ain’t gonna to be cheap lad.”

      Snape shoots him a bitter look, “As I said, I’m willing to offer you a substantial amount -”

      “Of how much?’ Ginny interrupts, not eager to see this continue in circles.

      Snape quiets her with a glance, before continuing, “- half will appear in a holding account at Gringotts this very evening should you agree to our terms, the remainder of which shall be deposited once the transfer of goods is complete and your brewing notes are deemed in order. I cannot speak to emphasize the consequences if one were to find inaccuracies of any sort in any of the materials sold to us.” He threatens, his eyes hard and his face twisted in a scowl.

      “The offer is 2 million galleons, each” he adds on when Ginny opens her mouth to interrupt. He reaches into his cloak and pulls out a contract, unrolling it in one smooth motion before laying it on the table in front of them. He adds, “Though I’m not sure how the squib is deserving of such a sum. How did she contribute to this again?” He asks lightly, looking at Dun. Ginny lets out a growl and makes to stand, wooden pike in hand before Dung forces her back in her chair. Snape looks ever so pleased with himself as he watches the exchange

      “Deal.” Dung says suddenly, looking rather pale.

      “-What, Dung? You can’t be serious?” Ginny says startled, looking over at him.

      “Hush child,” he says, looking more serious than she’s ever seen him.

      “Now, we won’t be askin’ much of ya,” he says to Snape, “But if you can giv-us a week or so to be getting our affairs in order-”

      “Dung what are you doing!”

      “You have three days,” Snape says over Ginny’s cry. He nods to each of them as he stands, “Mr. Fletcher, Miss Weasley” and he makes his way to the door. One hand on the doorknob, he turns around to look at them, “Don’t give up on hope in magic just yet,” he says so softly she almost would have missed it had he not been looking her directly in the eye. So startled is she by the remark that she almost doesn’t hear him say to Dung, “You know what to do.” She sees Dung nod in the corner of her eye. Snape leaves, cloak trailing behind him as the noise of the club hits them like a wave, leaving Ginny and Dung sitting back in a daze.

      They look at each other, startled, and at a loss for words. When it looks like Ginny is about to open her mouth, Dung silences her with a wave of his hand.

      “Not here,” he says weary of the open door and lack of silencing charm, “not now. Meet me at my place in twenty,” he says before she can interrupt, and stands up, following Snape’s path, leaving her alone in the room.

      She looks around, never having felt more alone in her life as she feels right now, in this grey barren room, and its crumbling walls. Everything she had worked so hard for these past two years, gone. She sighs, standing up as she hears the sounds of a fight coming her way, and shakes her head at Dung, wondering how on earth he expects her to make it to his place on the other side of London in that amount of time. Head down, cloak wrapped tightly around her form, she makes her way out of the bar, silver in one hand, stake in the other, and resists the urge to flag a cab once she get’s out on the street, just for the principle of it.

      Forty minutes later, she pounds on Dung’s door, soaked and shivering at the downpour that had caught her unawares halfway through the trip. She sighs, shaking out her jacket and removing her shoes once he lets her in, wishing, not for the first time, that she would have swallowed her pride and hailed a cab.

      She edges her way carefully into the apartment, weary of the miscellaneous objects scattered throughout. Dung is pacing, and she takes stock of the open bottle of booze on top of the liquor cabinet, and the empty glass beside it.

      She stands, waiting for him to start. This certainly isn’t their first fight in the two years they’ve known each other, but she has a feeling it could be their worst.

      “We’ve got to get you out’a London. Out’a this fuckin’ country,” he says eventually, looking more grim than she’s ever seen him.

      She protests immediately. There’s no way she’s leaving Britain, that had never been on the cards.

      “You don’t get it, you’ve never understood, this past year -” he makes his way over to the cabinet,. “You weren’t around for the last war,” he says with his back to her, head bowed as he pours himself another glass. “You don’t understand how bad-”

      “Fuck I don’t understand!” she says, unable to hear anymore of his talk. He startles, and swears as he spills his drink on the rug. Turning to face her, he opens his mouth but Ginny cuts him off.

      “How dare you say I don’t understand; that I don’t get it. You know what I’ve been through, what was done to me.”  She pauses, heaving for breath, before the words roll out of her mouth, out of her control now, “I don’t need you lookin’ down on me like everyone else does - that’s bullshit Dung an’ you know it. I may not ‘ave been around for the first war but it sure as hell killed a piece of me as it did anyone else.”

      “But that’s just it!” he replies, truly angry now, “Don’t you get it Gin? Don’t you see-”

      “-No I don’t Dung” she interrupts, “I don’t get it. All this time I’ve had to put up with people treating me like I’m no’ capable lookin’ after myself, like I can’t do nothin’ now I’ve got no magic. And now you be doin’ the same thing! Tellin’ me I can’t be lookin’ after myself, just ‘cuz i don’t fit in nowhere, -”

      “Now that’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. I’m just trying to get both our arses out a danger. That’s why we agreed to sell the damn business!”

      “Oh an’ I’m sure that’s the only reason is it? You lyin’ cheatin’ bastard, arrangin’ this whole thing with Snape, what you stayed behind, had a good ol’ laugh be’ind my back, tradin’ stories of the little fuck-up Ginny Weasley, how she could’ave possibly fallen for the whole ‘stayin’ safe while the war is on bullshit. I bet you and Snape planned this whole thing out! I bet you’re actually working for that Death Eater! You are aren’t ya!”

      “Who you callin a Death Eater? I ain’t no ones fuckin Death Eater-”

      “Oh yes you are!”

      “No I ain’t”

      “Yes you are, and I bet you wipe Lucius Malfoy’s arse when he be askin for it too!”

      “Oh you little-”

      He takes a swing at her, misses and stumbles at the loss in balance, the drink not helping him when she punches a fist into his gut and barely avoiding a follow through kick to his knees. He grabs her hair in response and gets a good hit at her nose before her knee slams into his crotch. He curses, letting her go on reflex and she’s got him in a headlock before he can get outta the way. She’s screaming, cursing him at the top of her lungs, red hair flying around her and blood gushing out of her nose. She looks like a woman possessed, he thinks, before his thoughts go blurry at the edges. Scrambling now, he manages to find purchase and crashes them both into the ground. He lands hard on her ribs, and before she can recover he scrambles out of reach, raising his wand, head throbbing and palms sweating as he keeps his aim on her. Ginny’s still wheezing on the ground, arm wrapped around her ribs, but he knows not to let his guard down before -

      She sweeps her right leg around and sends him to face first onto the floor once more. There’s a mad scramble for the loose wand, and they claw and scratch at each other trying to get the upper hand. Ginny emerges victorious, her longer nails having done some damage before she stands, mirroring the position he had been in, wand raised, blood rushing down her face. They both realise the wand is useless in her hands at the same moment, and the utter despair that flashes across her face is enough to have Dung back on his feet, arms cradling her as she sobs, dropping the wand from her finger tips and watching as it rolls on the floor.

      “Shhhh, shhh, it’s alright love, its alright.”

      “I just can’t-”

      “I know love, I know”

      They stand there, Dung cradling her in his arms, swaying her gently back and forth, and hushing her like a newborn until Ginny’s sobbing settles into the occasional hiccuping breaths.

      “I’m sorry I called you a Death Eater” she says after some time, breaking his gaze from the cars and drunken pedestrians going past his window. He looks down at her, and groans when she wipes the back of her hand under her nose and brushes it against his jacket, mildly disgusted at the mix of blood and snot staining his sleeve. She giggles, and tries to cling onto him, wiping her face into his jacket as he struggles to break free. Finally escaping, he pushes her onto the couch and makes his way over to the kitchen, the sound of her giggling comforting him as he throws his now ruined jacket at her.

      She sighs into Dung’s jacket, and looks around the apartment as if taking it in for the first time. Her mind brings up images of her and Dung walking into this place laughing with adrenaline pulsing in their veins after yet another close escape; of them in that dingy little kitchen where they tried their first attempt at food based potions and were sick as dogs for weeks after; at the crappy mattress behind that, where she had sat and cried on Dung’s shoulder when whatever boy she had been dating had broken her heart, and Dung had told her all the ways they’d make sure that boy would never walk straight again, and they’d laughed and they’d laughed as they came up with more and more ridiculous ways until they were both cryin’. She looks around the room, at the only place she’s ever really felt at home, and knows this is the last time she’ll see it.

      She thanks him softly when he returns and takes the steaming mug of tea gently between her hands. They sit beside each other silently, Ginny blowing softly on the tea, cooling it down before taking a sip. She can tell Dung is struggling to say something, and is exhausted enough to wait for him to spit it out.

      “Did I, did I ever tell ya ‘bout my little girl?” he says finally, when she’s halfway through her tea and her eyelids have gotten droopy enough that she’s wondering if he slipped some sort of sleep drug into her cup. She startles at his voice, and shakes her head when he looks over at her for an answer.

      “Ya, me and Melisandre had a wee lass together,” he says softly, turning his eyes back to the wall,  gaze far away and tea mug cradled between his hands. “She was a spitfire, she was, keepin’ her Ma up all night with her wailing, but oh she was everythin’ to us Gin.”

      He pauses, taking a breath as his voice cracks.

      “I can’t, I can’t see you gone too,” he whispers, and he keeps his gaze straight, not looking towards her as she cuddles up into his side, careful of her sore ribs. Swallowing back his tears, he says, “You don’t see, you don’t understand, the lengths someone would go through to keep their baby girl safe. An’ your family, I know you don’t get along, but you don’t think if anythin’ happened to ya that there’s nothin’ in the world they wouldn’t do to get you back?” He pauses, “And I wouldn’t either.” He sighs. “That’s why we sold the business,” he says, finally looking down at her, before taking a sip of his tea, face twisting into a grimace when he swallows the now cold tea. He thanks her softly when she passes him his wand, and he taps both of their drinks gently, watching as steam rises out of their mugs, warming in their hands. “Snape arriving was more a thing o’luck than anything else,” he laughs at the incredulous look on her face, and sighs, knowing Gin’s opinion on luck more than anything else. “I know, I know, it’s all a bit strange, but what’s one of your sayin’s, not looking a duck in the mouth or some’in?”

      She snorts with laughter, then groans with pain as some of the tea she had been drinking goes up her nose. Dung looks down at her and bursts into laughter at the expression on her face. She knows she can’t stay mad at him forever, and trying to keep a straight face when she hears Dung’s horrible giggle is always impossible.

      “So what then?” She asks after they’ve calmed down, regaining their breath. “Where should I go?”

      “Paris,” he says after a pause, draining the rest of his tea before continuing, “We’ll get you a one-way portkey to Paris. I have a contact there that you can stay with.”

      At her silence, he jostles her shoulder lightly with his own and plasters a smile on his face, “It’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

      Somehow, this fails to reassure her.

End Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edits 11/5  
> Character dialogue and some grammar


	5. Interlude II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before she knows it, it’s Bill’s wedding, and the date of her departure for Paris is upon them.

INTERLUDE II:

      Before she knows it, it’s Bill’s wedding, and the date of her departure for Paris is upon them. Dung has been fairly cagey so far about who exactly she will be staying with, only saying that it’s someone he used to do business with, that his contact is central, and that she’s fairly reliable. They focus instead of getting Ginny transferred to her school’s international program to complete her A-levels in Paris. She is also lucky enough to have been granted an apprenticeship at the Paris School of Ballet, and so will be continuing her life there with minimal interruptions. She has her bag on a timed expansion charm courtesy of Hermione, and she tries to enjoy spending the night with her family. Setting aside their differences and the fights they’ve had over the past couple years is hard, but she knows that this may well be the last time she sees them whole and happy like this. It’s when everyone’s guards are down that the attack happens. The chaos is instant. People run, screaming trying to get away, trampling over gowns and party favours, and Ginny is tossed around in the mayhem before someone grabs her fiercely, dragging her to the side. A cold object is placed in her palm and the last thing she hears is Dung, telling her good luck, before getting swallowed up by the crowd.

 

      She smacks into the rough cobblestone street, her body aching, head pounding and stomach heaving as she fights against the urge to vomit. The ill effects of an illegal international portkey on her squib body is something she never hopes to experience again, and she curses Fletcher for putting her through that with no warning.

      Feeling the weight of eyes on her, she straightens, pushing down her nausea, and fixing her skirts. She looks around and spots the shadow of a woman standing in the alcove of a doorway, staring at her intently. Upon noticing her gaze, the woman demands,

      “Qui est-tu? Que fais-tu ici?”

Hoping that this is her contact, she replies,

      “Je suis - Je m’appelle Ginny Weasley.”

      The woman grumbles, “Eh bein, il m’avait dit que tu viendras plus tard!” Seeing Ginny’s look of confusion, her mind not up to translating the woman’s rapid-fire french, it is repeats in English, “Fletcher said you’d be by later girl, you should have notified me to a change in plans.” She turns to make her way inside, and when Ginny makes no move to follow, she says impatiently, “Well come on then!”

      She obeys, lacking any other options, and trails after the grim woman, until she’s standing awkwardly in the foyer as her host barks out orders in sharp french to several girls standing nearby. They nod and scurry away, each to their own tasks, before the woman looks back down at Ginny.

      “Now, I am Madame Lévesque, bare no mind to what Fletcher told you about me, it’s all false. Now, he says that you have talents. You’ll need to put those to use while you’re here, girl, else you’ll find yourself with no place to stay. First, you must learn French. I do not care whether you’ve already learnt it in school, it’s obviously not good enough; I won’t have you carrying on in English like some American tourist. Second, Fletcher wants me to remind you to keep up with your studies. You’re here on a scholarship, girl, and you better see that you maintain the standards needed. Last, rent is 600 a month. I don’t want to know how you get the money, I don’t care. If it’s not in my office on the first of each month, your out of here. Consider this your first and final warning. Is that clear? Any questions? Wonderful!” She says before Ginny can even think to reply. Turning her back completely, she yells,

      “Ramavi!”

A dark haired girl comes scuttling around the corner.

      “Oui Madame Lévesque?” she replies, her black eyes narrowed at Ginny, her curly brown hair fighting against the band keeping it in place.

      “Meet your new room-mate,” Madame says with a nod before turning around without a word, leaving Ginny stranded in the hallway with the dark skinned girl who’s eyeing her like a piece of particularly unpleasant roadkill that was left at her doorstep. She sighs, and following her roommate up the stairs to their room, she thinks to herself that this is going to be a long year.

\-----------

      The months go by so fast Ginny doesn't know how to keep up. She hasn’t heard anything from her family since the wedding, and hopes that Dung had at least told them that she was safe. Worrying about her family has proven fruitless, the stress leading her nowhere save depression as she remains without news, absolutely cut off from the magical world for the first time in her life. The emotions that come with that realization are startling. She hadn’t realized how much she still depended on magic, having thought she had learnt to live without it.

      She has other, more pressing worries to focus on however, such as getting enough money for rent. Her apprenticeship position at the Ballet school barely gets food on the table, and the high demands of her scholarship have her working hard to maintain her grades.

      Each month she seems to get more and more creative in ways to make ends meet, but she knows she won’t be able to keep it up for much longer. Pickpocketing and thieving can only take one so far, and it can’t be done too often without getting noticed. It comes to Christmas time, and she’s missed too many meals and still doesn’t have enough to get the rent paid when she finally finds a crew that will take her in. They get her to be the runner, the go between in transferring goods from one dealer to another. It’s dangerous, especially with no one to watch her back. She’s had to make more than a couple daring escapes already, but it pays enough to make her feel comfortable again. It’s the end of March when it all falls apart. Marcus, the head of their crew, got into a gunfight with a rebel gang and died, the little shit. Jobless again, and with not enough money saved up to make the rent payment due next week, she is left completely out of options.

      She goes to to Madame Lévisque on her hands and knees, begging to be allowed an extension on her rent payment. Surprisingly, the fearsome woman agrees, with interest of course, so long as Ginny owes her a little favor to be determined in a few months time. Knowing she’s signing a deal with the proverbial devil, Ginny acquiesces, truly at a lack of options until another crew will take her into their fold.

      It’s June, weeks before her year-end dance performance and school exams when Madame Lévisque calls in her favour. Stomach filled with lead, she sits in the corner of Madame’s office, growing numb as the seconds go by, waiting for her sentence.

      “All you need to do,” Madame says, after having been staring silently at Ginny for the past five minutes since she walked into the office, “is deliver this parcel by 1800 tomorrow.” She passes Ginny the box, which has a house number, a street name, and a country stamped on the top in unfamiliar cursive. Any relief she had felt at the simple enough task is dashed when she sees her country of destination. Amsterdam.

      Ignorant to the full scale panic Ginny is feeling, Madame waves a hand at her, signaling that their conversation is over and that she should leave the room.

      The walk to back to her room feels as though she is marching towards her execution, the box growing heavier and heavier with each step. Squashing down her panic, she plans ahead. Cringing inside at the thought of all the dance rehearsals she’ll miss tomorrow, she sets out to find the cheapest and fastest way to Amsterdam, so that she can get back to Paris as soon as possible and leave this unpleasant nightmare behind her.

      She steps off the plane and hails a cab, giving the driver the address on the box and waiting impatiently as they drive around the canals lining the city. Arriving at her destination, she quickly jumps out of the cab and makes a run for it before he can demand payment. Satisfied that the cabbie has given up chasing her and left the area, she makes her way back to the rendezvous spot, a quaint little apartment building lying on the outskirts of the city center. At 6pm on the dot, she rings the doorbell, body pumping with adrenaline. She can almost feel the relief of getting this over and done with.

      The last thing she remembers is something incredibly solid making contact with the back of her head and she feels a spark of dread before blacking out, knowing that whatever is to come will not end well for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the kudos! Really appreciate all the response I've been getting. I'm hoping to have the next chapter up sometime next week, but it's a long one and I've got midterms coming up, so it might only be 'till the week after. After that though, chapters should be coming out more regularly as they're all mostly written, I just have to go through and make a couple edits.  
> Thanks for reading and let me know what you think!


	6. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny opens her eyes and blinks. Then blinks again. Still, there is nothing but darkness surrounding her. Struggling for a moment, desperate to bring motion back into her limbs, she feels a sharp pain from her wrists and ankles....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for depictions of torture (mental, and mentions of physical).

PART 4

       Ginny opens her eyes and blinks. Then blinks again. Still, there is nothing but darkness surrounding her. Struggling for a moment, desperate to bring motion back into her limbs, she feels a sharp pain from her wrists and ankles. She reaches out blindly in the dark, and finds chains keeping her tethered to the ground. She almost passes out at the realization that she is trapped, in a blacked out cell, with no recollection of the past few hours. Sheer desperation is enough to keep her conscious, and she sets about trying to release her wrists and ankles from where they’ve been shackled. By the time she gives in to the pounding in her head and passes out again, her voice is gone and her wrists and ankles have been scrapped bloody and no closer to being free.

       She drifts in and out of awareness, the overwhelming darkness pressing in on her, driving her mad. She can't see anything. She doesn't know the time of day let alone if she has her eyes open or not. The blackness is oppressive, weighing in on her, surrounding her, paralyzing her. Her hunger and thirst became secondary to the aching in her bones, the deterioration in her mind and the decay in her body, which she has only felt once before. The area in her mind that had stored the memories of Tom Riddle can no longer keep him contained, and he surrounds her. He takes over her mind, her soul, and attacks her again and again, the memories of him ripping her apart piece by piece.

       She opens her eyes when the feel of a damp cloth pressing against her face feels less like a hallucination and more like reality. Shifting, mind not comprehending the figure she sees in front of her, she remains pliant as her lips are parted and cool water is poured into her mouth. She coughs, her throat rough and sore, before gasping as her body realizes that this is what it has been craving. Her throat bursts, and she would cry if she had any tears left in her. She drains the cup eagerly, and the second one that follows not long after. Her stomach complains, sore from the sudden use, and she feels bloated and sick, like she drank the entire ocean. She collapses against the wall, hands covering her sensitive belly, and mind trying to understand how she could have lived with that level of thirst. She wants more water, but knows that one more drop will make her physically sick. In the midst of this, she realizes that her wrists and ankles have been unchained, and that she can see the outlines of her body, of the grey stone wall surrounding her, of a figure moving back to stand beneath the doorway.

       She freezes, caught unaware, and, in a sudden burst of energy, rushes for her cup before hunching against the wall, determined to protect what is now hers. Empty or not, this cup is all she has. The stranger hushes her, and she realizes she had been snarling, feral and guttural, while hunching defensively against the wall. She feels self conscious, but not enough to abandon her posture. The stranger advances slowly, cautiously, still speaking to her in an unknown language. She lets them come nearer; knowing there is not much she can do to defend herself when she is this weak, but she won't go down with trying. The stranger is a woman, she sees, in the dim light. She wouldn't be able to guess the woman’s age, the contradiction of a kind and open face mixing with laugh lines and streaks of grey and dark hair keeping it impossible to determine. Motherly, is Ginny’s first thought, and she is shocked but soothed when the woman’s first move is not to strike her, as she had feared, but to stroke her tangled hair, brushing it out gently. Once free of most knots, the woman takes out the damp cloth and starts to clean it, going through her hair gently, lovingly. Done with that task, she takes a clean rag and rub gentle circles on Ginny’s her arms and face, soothing her all the while. Too startled at the overwhelming contact,  Ginny can no longer keep her mind and body on high alert. She decides to go against her instincts, which are screaming at her to get away from the woman, and instead succumbs to care, drifting off to the woman cleaning her of weeks worth of sweat, blood and decay.

       The woman is there when Ginny wakes again. She brings with her more water, and the comfort of a mother. All the while Ginny battles against her instinct to flee from the woman, mind not trusting but body too broken to care.

       This process continues. She wakes from nightmares in the woman’s embrace, having her rock and hush her as if she were a small child. There is not a waking moment that goes by without the woman and soon Ginny can no longer remember the cell without her presence.

       The first time the woman brings her food Ginny almost vomits. It is only a small piece of bread, but after so long without food, she can barely stomach it. She takes a bite anyway, and something awakes in her, the long forgotten hunger pains, so strong she can no longer push them aside. She is fed carefully, slowly, but it is still a struggle to keep the food in her stomach. Now, when the woman visits her, it is always with food and water. Sometimes she manages to eat a whole slice, other times she can’t even look at it without feeling nauseous. Today is one of those days. The sight of the bread makes her stomach heave, and Ginny clamps a hand over her mouth to keep herself from vomiting. The woman sighs and puts the bread away. Ginny makes a whine of protests, mind fighting for food, but stomach protesting the idea violently.

       “It is okay,” the woman says in heavily accented English. “There will be more food later.” She rubs a hand up and down Ginny’s back, soothing her. She speaks slowly and sweetly, a lullaby, and Ginny falls asleep, feeling safe.

       The woman comes back every day – it must be, though she can’t tell the passing of time in the darkness of her cell – bringing with her light and food, water and comfort. Slowly but surely, Ginny regains some of the weight she has lost, and she strengthens. And then one day, she opens her eyes, and realizes that the woman has not returned.

       And so a routine is formed. Her body weakens with starvation and her mind from isolation. Going to the brink of madness, she is brought back by the woman, who always returns just as Ginny reaches her breaking point . Every time she tells herself to be strong, to resist, but every time she is won over. It becomes the cruelest of tortures, knowing that this is the woman who provides for her, and the woman who takes everything away. The starvation, she could say, she has almost gotten used to, and the ache in her bones is now a familiar friend. No, it is the weeks of solitary confinement that is breaking her, tearing her mind over and over and over again.

       There are times when she is so overwhelmed with paranoia that she can’t sleep. She swears they are there, the monsters, the shadows. Tom Riddle was a child’s nightmare compared to what awaits for her in them. They hide when the woman is there, but as soon as she leaves, they return. Tom and the shadows like to fight over her, battling for ownership of her mind. On and on it goes as they display her deepest fears and taunt her with her greatest desires. They rip through her, turned her inside out, trying to gain the greatest advantage against each other. Tom Riddle is sent away licking his wounds more often than not, until one day he does not return. Her childhood tormentor leaves her to the mercy of the shadows.  She doesn't know which should worry her more, the fact that she still had dependence on Tom to fight her battles for her, or that his departure from her still hurts like an open wound.

       The shadows descended upon her with a vengeance then after the disappearance of their rival. Not that she can see them, but she knows they are there, can feel them in her bones, in her skull, peering out of her eyelids, taking over her body.

       She screams and pulls at her hair, feeling the strands that fall free from her scalp. Her hair, her once glorious, thick hair now hangs limp and thin, barely there. She has a growing pile of it in the corner, and amuses herself by counting, by feel, the strands that have fallen out. It is a game she plays to keep her mind occupied, and she tries to view her ailing body with macabre amusement. She is dying, and she knows this, can feel the evidence in the growing pile of hair that litters the floor. She rocks back and forth, nails biting at skin as she tries to get the shadows out. Out of her head. Out of her body. She screams, enraged and despairing. Her heart tries to break from her ribcage; it beats, so strong, so alive, as it tries to rip its way out her skin. She pushes a hand against her chest, trying to keep her heart. She curls in on herself, and screams.

       There are times when she barely moves. She can lie in comatose stillness. Sometimes this amuses her, the fact that after all these years, she is finally reaching the level of stillness her Sensei had tried so hard to teach her. More often than not, she doesn't find it amusing. More often than not, she doesn't think of anything at all. She can lay there, for hours, for days, for months, for minutes, staring at the nothingness in her cell, her mind blank and her body weightless.

       Sometimes, she feels magic. She feels her bones knitting together, her heart continuing to beat against its will, her broken mind being pieced back together, before the whole process of being broken starts over again. This magic, repairing its broken host, keeps her alive when all she wants to do is die die die die die.  She refuses to accept it, that there is some spark of this curse left in her. She no longer keeps track of the days she goes without water, without food. She doesn’t want to know. Sometimes, when the world is still, and the sound of her breath is loud in her cell, she can feel her body hum with it. With magic.

       It drives her mad.

       There are times when she sees her friends, her family from long ago. These visits are less frequent now, and she knows that soon she they will come to an end as the woman’s visits become more frequent. Once, she sees Harry Potter, and she yells at him for hours, screaming and crying, demanding to know why he hadn't come for her sooner, hadn't rescued her like he should have. Her boy-with-the-lightning-bolt-scar, the defeater of the Dark Lord, hadn't bothered to save her. If only he had been the hero she had needed him to be. If only he had saved her, then they would have been together, spending their years at Hogwarts in love before he would go on to be an Auror for the Ministry, and she would be a pro Quidditch player. They would have gotten married at the Burrow. Her mother would have cried and her father would have smiled, and they both would have been so proud as they walked her down the aisle. They would have had three beautiful children, with his dark and messy hair and with her eyes. They would have lived happily ever after. She cries when she tells him this, as he stands there, expression pitying, and mouth shut, as the little girl in her who had dreamt of fairy tales and happily ever afters is dying. When he finally disappears, fading away slowly, his piercing green eyes the last to leave her, she collapses on the floor and cries like she never has, and never will again. Her childhood sweetheart is gone, her hero will not be coming to save her, and she knows, with a frightening certainty, that any buried hope of being rescued has now been shattered to dust.

       She is trapped here, and no one will be saving her. 

       There are times when she dreams in colours, in flashes of bright lights, where she sees fantastical beasts and beautiful scenes of purple grass and orange sky. She lies there, on the sky, looking at the grass, and beside her is a six-legged horse with her heart on its flank. Sometimes the colours talk to her, sometimes they scream at her.  But sometimes, it is just her, and the horse, lying on the orange sky, under the purple grasses. She forgets her name here, and eventually the horse wanders off with her heart on its flank, leaving her behind to the grass and the sky and the colours.

       Sometimes, when the woman comes, her shadows stay. Sometimes, when the woman comes, it is not with food and comfort, but with a sharp tongue and solid fists. She tries not to think about those times.

 

This is how she saves herself.

       She wakes, and there are no remnants of the shadow of a girl who had first been held in this cell. She never existed. She is the girl without name. Waiting only for the woman. The woman who is neither her mother nor her teacher yet somehow both. She teaches her to be still, to be nothing. She is taught to withstand the beatings without a sound, to take the words and use them as weapons, to do this unflinchingly, unyielding. And finally, after much time, the woman teaches her how to battle her nightmares, her shadows that haunt her until she can send them back howling and screaming from the hell where they came from.

       This is her freedom. The woman has molded her, and birthed her. The woman has given her the name of Natalia Romanova, daughter of the Red Room. She has been cleansed of the lies she had thought of as her past. No more would she be assaulted with obviously false images planted by the enemy, that suggested that she had been the daughter of Molly Weasley and a sister to six brothers. These were lies instilled in her by the enemy. She has been cleansed. She has been reborn. She knows no mother other than the woman, she knows no siblings other than her sisters in the Red Room. She is Natalia Romanova, and this is how she survives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Bit of a heavy chapter this one. Let me know what you think. I also made some changes to part 3, so it may help to go back and read that chapter again.  
> Part 5 might be published by next Thursday? We'll see, it needs a lot of work....I'll aim for sometime next weekend.


	7. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her life in the Red Room is an exercise in control.

PART 5

Her life is an exercise in control.

Every action, every thought, is dictated and authorized by the Red Room. Nothing she does is her own, her body is the property of the Red Room, and her mind their best asset. They train her to be single minded in her dedication, unwavering in her loyalty, ruthless in her killings. It becomes a well-beloved tale to the girls in the Red Room that their sister Natalia can acquire a target with no more than a look in her eye and quirk of her lips. She is the Spider, and she weaves her tangled web to capture and to kill.

She thinks she enjoys her work, her place in the Red Room. She is cognizant at least of how the Red Room disposes of girls that no longer prove their worth. Already, newer and younger recruits are replacing her sisters that she graduated with, and soon she is the only one from her class still in service. Her longevity in the program is attributed to the magical body she was gifted, allowing her to age at a slower rate and return to base with bruises rather than broken bones. Her faith in the Red Room never fails, and her mind never loses track of the assignment.

\---

She is in the middle of her longest deep cover mission yet. Posed as a ballet instructor at the Vaganova Academy, she is cultivating a close relationship with her star pupil, Claudia, in hopes to gain contact with the girl’s elusive father. Finally, she sees her chance when the young teen talks excitedly to her fellow classmates on how excited she is that Papa is coming home for the month after having been away for so long.

Natalia calls the young dancers back to center, setting them up with their latest adagio segment before planning her next move. She sighs as Claudia falls out of the penche, and knows this will be a long day. 

She dismisses the class after another hour, but asks Claudia to stay behind.

 

“What is it Miss?” 

“Show me the adagio one more time” she says, and asks the pianist to start up the accompaniment. Natasha is well aware of the other girls watching them from the doorway, envious of Claudia’s special treatment.

Turning her attention back Claudia, she watches as the girl moves through the positions.

“There! Stop please,” she says to the pianist, before making her way over to Claudia who has once again fallen out of balance. “Your supporting leg is turned in! Girl, we are not in primary dance anymore! What are you doing!”

“I’m sorry-”

“As you should be. Again! From the changement please.” She watches as her student sets up, and helps her find the proper alignment, shifting her hips and squaring her shoulders.

“Yes! Like that, and hold it-” she sighs as Claudia loses her balance again. Long after the pianist had left with the last of the dancers from her earlier class, they are still going through the entire repertoire, analyzing each segment step by step.

At long last, the moment she'd been waiting for arrives.

The doors to the classroom slam open just as Claudia set ups for her fouettés, and two men with weapons raised barge into the room. Claudia startles, falling out of her turns, before saying “Papa!” and running towards one of the armed men. Quickly holstering his weapon, he barely manages to catch her as she leaps into his arms.

“Oof!” he grunts, eyes still sharp, and waiting for the signal from the other man to say the room is clear before loosening his grip on his daughter and letting her slide to the floor.

“My darling I was so worried!” he says, as Claudia wraps her arms around him. “You didn’t call Guido about staying behind. You were supposed to have been home an hour ago, and you know how Guido gets anxious.” he says with a smile, and Claudia turns to her bodyguard, Guido, who scowls at her.

“Oh I’m sorry Mr Guido, Ms Nastya was just helping me with my positioning! She says that if I continue to work hard, I could be accepted into the Mariinsky when the examiners come in June!”

They all look towards Natasha, who had been standing stock still, eyes wide and face pale, hands braced behind her against the piano where she'd stumbled when the men had come barging into the studio. 

“Oh I’m terribly sorry Miss, we must have given you quite a scare,” says Claudia’s father as he makes his way towards her. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes of course,” she says, visibly composing herself and glancing at Claudia who is gesturing wildly to Guido about what she learnt today. She looks up at Claudia’s father, taking him in. He must be just over 190 cm, with blond hair going grey around the temples, and a well tailored suit flattering his fit frame. She meets his eyes and extends a shaking hand.

“It is lovely to meet you Mr Gruzinsky, after all this time. I apologize, I never meant to cause any worry, if I had known there was someone waiting-”

“Please, it should be us who need to apologize after giving you a scare, Miss-”

“Anastasiya Ramovich, but please, call me Nastya”

“Only if you call be Antov.” She nods, releasing her hand from his grip and looks down at her watch.

“My! It has gotten late! I hadn’t noticed. No wonder you were anxious,” she says with a small smile.

“Please, do not worry. It is a wonderful thing that you spend such time with my daughter.”

“Oh it is no hardship,” she blushes and looks away from his gaze, turning to start packing up her things. Antov looks towards his daughter who has been watching the exchange with a wide grin on her face.

“What do you say we invite Ms Nastya for dinner with us, darling?” Looking to her, he adds, “It's the least we can do after you've taken the time to help Claudia for so long this afternoon. If you are able, we would be most happy for you to join us.”

Nastya looks at Claudia, who is nodding her head, before looking back at Antov.

“That’s very kind, but you mustn't feel obligated-”

“Do you have other plans?”

“I don’t-”

“There, it is settled. Guido, bring the car around, and change our reservations for three. Ms Nastya will be joining us for dinner this evening.”

“Very well sir,” he says, nodding, before making his way out of the studio. Nastya sighs, clearly overruled, before shaking her head and saying,

“I will need to stop at home quickly and grab some things.”

“No worries, we will stop on the way. Claudia, darling, why don’t you go and get dressed.”

Claudia runs to her father, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, whispering, “I’m so happy you’re home,” before grabbing her bags and running off to the change room.

Nastya smiles at the exchange, before turning around to start closing up the studio. Mindful of Antov’s gaze, she gathers up her things as he makes his way around the room, admiring the photos of past students hanging on the wall.

“Is that-?” He points towards a photo of a girl doing the same [penche](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/162692605263303976/) that Claudia had been struggling with earlier.

"Yes, that’s Svetlana Zakharova. Did you hear she’s moving over to the Bolshoi?”

“No, you can’t be serious? Oh Claudia will be devastated. The whole reason she had wanted to go to the Mariinski was the chance of performing with the great Zakharova.”

Nastya nods, “This will definitely be a great blow to the Mariinski. But perhaps with enough training, Claudia may be able to compare.”

He looks at her with wry amusement, before turning to the doorway as he hears his daughter’s footsteps approaching. She bursts into the room, red faced and out of breath.

“I’m ready!”

“Alright then. Miss Nastya are you ready? Then let's be on our way!”

Nastya follows the happy duo, and keeps in step with Guido the bodyguard as they make their way to the car.

After a brief stop at her apartment, they continue on to the restaurant. They are seated, and after a slight mishap where the server presumes she is Antov’s wife, the awkwardness is broken by light laughter and quick conversation that carries them through the evening.

 

They say goodnight with the promise to see each again, and Nastya smiles as she waves them goodbye from her doorstep.

For the next week, Claudia comes to classes positively floating amongst the clouds, and manages to claim another evening with the three of them in a few days time.

Nastya enjoys the proximity this allows her between her pupil and the girl's father. She makes an effort to be seen as a companion to the girl, as much as she can be as her instructor, and this effort does not go unnoticed.

Antov looks behind him, after the fourth or fifth such evening together, to see what has the ladies so quiet in the backseat of the car. Normally there is there is a whispered conversation and hushed giggling coming from his daughter and her teacher, but not tonight. He smiles when he sees his daughter fast asleep on Nastya’s shoulder. Nastya brushes her fingers through the young girl's hair, smoothing out the blond curls, before looking up to meet his gaze. She quickly looks away, a blush on her cheeks as she places her hands in her lap. He turns around, gaze forward but unseeing, feelings he hasn't experienced in a long time fluttering through him.

They arrive at Nastya’s apartment, and she disentangles herself from the sleeping girl with care not to waken her. Antov walks her to the doorstep, and for the first time, is keenly aware of the distance between them, and wanting to close it. Their goodbyes are awkward, filled with nervous tension, and he makes a movement towards her, as if to kiss her goodnight, before quickly stepping back and making a brisk walk to the car.

Nastya goes inside the building, loosening her shoulders and letting down her hair. Taking off her shoes and coat, she sighs and tries to shake away the feelings of nervousness that have her stomach in knots. Continuing down the hallway, she makes her way to the secured landline to update the Red Room on her progress.

It's midway through March and Claudia’s eleventh birthday is fast approaching. She doesn’t know it, but her father has managed to find the time to come home for the week, and Nastya has taken it upon herself to find out what her student would like the most for her birthday.

“Really?” she asks, bemused, and Claudia nods, giggling slightly at the ridiculous idea, but quite determined all the same.

“Well, alright.” Nastya says, “A pasta pajama party it is.”

 

And so they surprise her when she comes home from classes to find her father and her ballet teacher both waiting for her in the kitchen, pajamas at the ready and dough settling on the counter.

Claudia squeals and gives them both a big hug, before running off to drag Guido and Ana into the fun, the bodyguard and housekeeper both looking rather weary but unwilling to say no to the birthday girl.

The evening quickly descends into chaos as flour ends up getting more on the people than in the oven. Soon, an all out war has broken loose, the girls against Antov, flour and water all over the floor. Ana, the small auburn haired housekeeper with a strong Russian temper, moans in the corner about all the cleaning she’ll have to do between passing handfuls of flour to Claudia, who giggles at tries to take aim. Claudia squeals when she hits Guido instead of her papa, and she takes cover behind Nastya.

“Oh oh,” Guido growls, before turning to face them both. “You'll wish you'd never done that.” He says with a grin before running towards them, arms outstretched, and Claudia giggles before dashing out of reach, circling the kitchen island. Nastya and Antov quickly get out of the way of the game of tag and tickle war, and Ana takes cover in the backroom, swearing off any further involvement.

Nastya and Antov catch each other’s eye, grins on their faces, cheeks flushed, and flour covering them head to toe. Looking back at the kitchen, they both sigh as they take in the mess. Antov looks back at Nastya, at the flour in her hair, and the smudge on the tip of her nose, and realizes with a jolt that sometime over the past few weeks he was fallen completely in love with her. He starts when a slab of dough hits him square in the chest. Looking across to the clear culprits, he pushes that thought aside and prepares for battle.

The housekeeper finds them some time later, declaring that they must clear up if they want any of the lasagna she had prepared in the back. She winks at Antov when Guido and Claudia let out exclamations of relief, and says,

“Somehow, I knew that not much would get done tonight.”

Antov laughs, helping Nastya up, brushing flour off of their clothing before they all settle around the table.

 

The lasagna is delicious, he is sure, but Antov can’t taste a single bite. Not with Nastya sitting so closely beside him, when he sees her eyes light up as she smiles, when she asks his daughter about her day, the way she crinkles up her nose when she is about to laugh. He marvels at her beauty, at how gracefully she carries herself, how well she fits into his little family.

They both look at him, and he realizes he must have let out a pained sound at the realization of how far gone he really is for her. Thinking wildly for and excuse, he says,

“I- I forgot to get the birthday girl a dessert!” and they both laugh when Claudia says “No you didn’t papa! I saw it in the fridge!”

“Ah, you got me! I was just trying to scare you.” He says with a smile. Looking around at their empty plates, he adds, “Now, why don’t you go get cleaned up before we open presents hmm?"

She smiles and stands, giving Ana a quick hug and thanking her for dinner before clambering up to her room. Ana motions for Nastya to stand as well, saying that she has taken the liberty to set up the guest room for her tonight.

“No excuses.” says the housekeeper with a coy little smile. “There are toiletries and spare change of clothes for you in the suite. Besides, I’m sure the little Miss will be delighted to see you in the morning.” She adds with a wry glance over at Antov.

Not knowing what on earth he has gotten himself into, he watches as his housekeeper and his daughter’s ballet teacher make their way upstairs.    

Turning to Guido, who gives him a quick wink and a thumbs up, he growls and gives him a shove. Guido only laughs, not swayed in the slightest, and goes to set up a film on the big screen TV for them all to watch.

 

Nastya wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, looks over at the clock and groans. Three in the morning. Her sleep had been restless at best, and she knows that there is little chance of falling back asleep now. Sighing, she gets up and makes her way to the kitchen, thinking perhaps a glass of water will help to clear her mind. She’s on her way back to her room when she notices a light coming from one the rooms at the end of the hall. Curious, she pushes the door open slightly and finds Antov at his desk, exhaustion clear on his features as he rests his cheek on his hand. He glances up at her and startles.

“Nastya, is everything alright!”

“Yes, yes, sorry for startling you. I was just on my way back from the kitchens and saw the light on. I shouldn't have bothered you.”

“Oh no, don’t worry, what time is it? Heavens, yes, I should be getting to bed.” He rises, and shuffles his papers nervously, before stopping when he sees she hasn’t moved.

“Nastya, are you sure everything’s alright?”

“Yes, I just,” she looks down and blushes, and he can’t help it. He makes his way around his desk, standing in front of her and trying to gather up some courage.

“What is it?” he says softly, eyes searching hers.

She licks her lips, and he's mesmerized. Glancing up briefly to meet her eyes, he places a hand on her cheek, and brushes the pad of his thumb against her lips. She sighs, leaning into him.

“Antov,” she breathes, and he can’t hold back.

His other hand reaches around her waist and he pulls her flush against him, tilting his head down and catching her lips with his.

She sighs when they part, a smile on her lips and eyes bright as they look at each other, before she reaches up to kiss him once more.

       ---------

She wakes up sometime later, rolling over to find the bed empty, but reassured by the sound of running water and the light coming from the bathroom ensuite. Letting out a big sigh, she stretches her arms overhead and points her toes, keeping her body extended for a moment before slumping back on the bed, completely relaxed and pleased with her progress. The sound of the tap turning off has her sitting up, and she scoots back to lean against the headboard. She can almost feel it, the safe behind her, built into the wall behind the bed, and knows that it's only a matter of time before she can figure out the passcode and complete her assignment.

She glances up when a door opens and Antov steps out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped low around his waist, and water still dripping from his hair.

“Mmhm, good morning,” she says, voice thick with sleep, and smiles as he makes his way over to her and gives her a soft kiss.

“What are you doing up so early?” she says softly between kisses, enjoying this gentle intimacy.

“Well, Claudia will soon be awake, if she is not already, and I figure I best take what I can before she barges in here.” He says with a grin, before scanning her face, trying to see how she feels about letting his daughter know about this new development between them. She just gives him a soft smile, and says,

“Does she do that often?” At his soft humm, his mouth busy on her neck, she breathes, pushing into him, “then, I best, put on some clothes” she pants, as he makes his way further down to her collarbone, nuzzling her neck softly.

“Uh uh, no clothes,” he says, and she lets out a laugh that turns to a moan as his mouth lowers to her chest.

A knock at the door makes them freeze, and he sighs before slumping over her, groaning when she giggles and cards her hands through his hair, trying to control her breathing and get her heart rate steady.

“Who is it?” He calls towards the door, and it's Ana’s voice that replies.

“Pardon to interrupt sir, but a little miss is wanting to see you both before she goes off the school. She was most eager to come up here herself, but-”

“Yes yes, thank you Ana, we'll be right down” he says, and rolls off Nastya with a sigh. He looks at her, at the smile she has on her face, at the way her chest is heaving, and how her pupils are dilated, and groans before pushing himself out of bed without looking back. He knows that if does, he’d crawl back into her arms and then they’d surely be interrupted once more by his daughter barging into the room wanting to know what was taking him so long to get ready.

 

They manage to make their way down to the kitchens, smiling as they see Claudia talking animatedly to Guido, who clearly has not yet had his morning coffee.

“Papa!” She says, and he gives her a quick hug before making his way over to the coffee machine. Nastya sits beside her student, and asks, “How’s the birthday girl feeling this morning? Was last night everything you could have hoped for?”

Antov smiles as he pours himself and Guido some coffee. They lean back against the counter and Antov takes in Nastya, her rosy cheeks and slightly mussed hair, listening intently to his daughter, and feels happier than he has in a long time.

       ---

It soon becomes routine that, if Antov is in town, Nastya will spend most nights over with him and Claudia.

It’s nearing the end of the school year and Claudia is gone at friend's house. Antov and Nastya had enjoyed the place to themselves, and in the still, peaceful silence that followed, she felt like she could finally ask the question that had been heavy on her tongue the entire evening.

They lie in bed, side by side and she feels the air getting cooler and the mood sinking as she waits for him to answer.

Finally, he describes the night he found his wife of ten years murdered in their own home. An armed robbery, he said. Claudia, six years old at the time, had been fast asleep in her bedroom, and never heard a thing, the dear child. But his poor wife, she had gone to see who was downstairs, thinking it had been him coming home late from a business trip. The men had killed her, a stupid accident, he said. If she hadn't gone downstairs they probably wouldn't have done it. They left her bleeding to death in the entryway, but not before stripping her of her jewels and diamonds, including her wedding ring.

Pausing, letting him collect himself, she steers the conversation over to happier memories. She asks about how he had met his late wife, (in France, at his wife’s old school) what she had been like (funny, kind, compassionate), when they had gotten married (15 years ago to the day). She asks about his late wife, and he tells her, smiling now at the happier memories of them both, and she knows then that she has it.

 

The combination is, of course, the date which he proposed to his late wife along with her social security number. Antov’s thumbprint completes the key, and she twists open the safe with a heavy weight in her stomach. She grabs the leverage, the documents, of Antov going after the men who had murdered his wife, of how he had payed off the police instead of being sent to prison. Then the nail on the coffin, the side contacts he had made in his work, all of which would lead to the Red Room playing this man like a puppet on a string for the rest of his life. Not letting herself think about it, she leaves the recovered wedding ring where it lies in the safe and quickly packs up the files in her bag. She scrubs down the safe, cleans up her things in the room, and heads out of the house the same way she got in. 

End Part Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this posted. Had a bit of a rough few weeks, but the good news is that you get two chapter in one go today! So yay for writing all of this weekend. Again, I should have this work done by Christmas, and I plan to start working on Part 2 over the holidays to have it ready to go by the New Year.  
> Thanks for all the Kudos, Bookmarks and Comments!


	8. Interlude III

INTERLUDE THREE

Madam is not happy.

She'd known when she had come back to the Red Room without Claudia in tow that she would be in trouble. She had been supposed to bring back both the documents and the girl, she had known this. There was leverage, and then there was collateral, and she'd walked away without the later. 

“Who are you, daughter, to believe you could act without the Room’s guidance?” Madam spat, and Natalia sobs from where she is held in chains, frail and shaking. “Who are you, so arrogant, so treacherous, daughter, to think without the permission of the Room?”

Her sisters surround her, mocking and taunting her, their greatest rival. The girls are delighted by this turn of events. They hiss at her, they beat her, unable to contain their glee at how far the red queen has fallen from her throne.

She is returned to the undergraduates, the new recruits. She stands guard as children barely old enough to bleed are brutalized and reviled in the same stroke. She is stone, unblinking, as two of the youngest recruits, biological sisters, fight each other to the death for the honour of advancing to the next class. She is unmoved, and unmoving as she guards the cell of a girl who's attempt at escape had been by a rope to her throat. She watches as the girl struggles and spasms for air, knows that the Red Room will keep the girl from her death. Any asset willing to go to such lengths against them can be turned into doing such things for them. She does not question this.

The assignments she is tasked with, when she is finally let out of the compound, are expected. She behaves, like the puppet she is, and tries not to be aware of how the strings around her limbs are constricting, tangling into knots, tightening into a noose. 

This is a treasonous line of thinking. The Red Room is all she has in this world; she can’t afford to make herself an enemy to them. And so she stills her limbs, and regulates her breathing. And yet, despite her imitation, her heart is beating too quickly in her chest for her to turn back into stone, back into a puppet, no matter how she tries. 

She follows orders, she complies. But she is aware, and this awareness is what will kill her, in the end. 

      -----


	9. Part Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long absence guys. I had the first version of his chapter written in December before I went back to school, but it just wasn't working for me so I couldn't post it. Thankfully, I'm all done with school for the summer, and managed to write, and re-write, this chapter until I'm actually ok with it. Only the epilogue left and then onto a one-shot of Budapest, (which is how the plot bunny for this exploded into 2 solid length fics). Thanks for sticking with me you guys!  
> As usual, if you see any mistakes, let me know!

She has her target, the stereotypical, drug dealing mafia lord who thought he could get away with cheating Hydra in his latest delivery. Obviously his wealth did not make up for his lack of brains. A heavier set man with a wife on his arm and a mistress in his bed, what better way to destroy him than to taking him out in a coup with his youngest son at the helm?  Nico Segatori was a college student, and like his father, was infamous for having a long string of lovers and an even longer string of enemies. A murder at a family wedding was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

She walks into the room like she owns it, no need to fake confidence when she can feel the stares of men and women alike following her across the floor. She struts in her high heels, her blond hair curling on her bare shoulders, gold dress hugging her curves and swaying as she walks, flashing an indecent amount of thigh from the slit running up the side of her gown.  

It's easy enough to pretend to be the girlfriend of a distant relative in a family this size, and she laughs at cousin Enzzo’s jokes and slaps away papy Marco’s groping hands as she helps herself to more champagne.

The evening is nearing its peak when she spots him. He is off to the side of the room, laughing and joking with a group of young men about his age, probably from his college.  Catching their gaze, she raises an eyebrow, and after extricating from his friends, who cat-call and whistle after him, he makes his way towards her.

 “What do you want to drink? I'll get you anything” he says, close to her ear on the pretext of being pushed together by the crowd.

“Not much of an offer at an open bar,” she retorts, and he smirks.

“I was going to offer you a space in my bed, but I thought to at least offer the lady a drink first,” he says with a wink.

She huffs a laugh and slaps him on the chest, lashes fluttering when he grabs her wrist and gives it a kiss before wrapping an arm around her waist.

_Bingo_

“What's your name bella?”

“Nadia, my name is Nadia” she says.

“Nadia.” He says, rolling her name over his tongue, and playing with the beading of her dress where his hand is splayed across her hip.  “I don't recall seeing you at the family gatherings. Believe me, I would have remembered a figure such as yours,” he says with a squeeze to her hip, and starts steering her towards the bar.

She snorts, and wiggles in his grip. “Then you must have a poor memory. Didn’t you see me standing ceremony just a few hours ago?”

“What?” he says startled, “Don’t tell me you where the bride!” He says, not overly concerned if this was to be the case.

“I was the bridesmaid silly! Don’t be ridiculous.”

He laughs nervously, “Ah yes of course, now I remember you! You were in the yellow dress right? Now what do you want to drink?”

“It was pink,” she corrects, “And a gin and tonic” she adds.

He turns to the bartender, “Double gin and tonic for the lady, and campari on the rocks for myself.”  Turning towards her, he continues, “I was too distracted by your beauty to focus on dresses. Now though, I definitely take notice,” he growls into her ear. Perfect. She gives him a quick kiss on his neck, red lipstick staining his skin and he grabs her more firmly now, eyes dilated.

 

“Shall we?” She says, struggling to turn at collect their drinks from the bartender with his arm tight around her waist. He takes the opportunity to breath heavily against her neck and squeeze her hip through the dress. She presses into him for a moment, before pushing against his arm and leading them away from the bar, his hand never straying far from her ass.

She sips her drink from where they sit together with the friends. The boys are boisterous and loud and more than a bit drunk. Nico’s hand hasn’t stopped moving, across her shoulders, down her back, squeezing her ass, rubbing her thigh. The guys take notice, but aside from lustful glances and colourful comments, they leave her to Nico. 

She fights the urge to fidget, a forgotten urge, one she brushes aside immediately, and quickly throws a smile up at Nico who had felt her tense ever so slightly. Giving her thigh a light squeeze, he turns his attention back to his buddies and their debate on who the new groom’s latest whore will be. Taking this as her chance, she excusing herself gently, caressing his shoulder as she stands and makes her way towards the restroom doors.

Mind curiously blank, she remembers switching her glass with a passerbyer, and dropping her newly stolen glass on the floor after bumping into the bride with a bit too much force, she slips away in the mayhem that follows. Traces of her neatly dealt with, she continues on past the lavatories, finds herself at the concierge and asking for her coat before bustling her dress and slipping out into the cool night without looking back.

 

As she walks away from the hotel, her mind screams at her to turn back. Body numb, she keeps walking, not allowing herself to stop and turn around and complete the mission before the Red Room discovers that their greatest operative has simply up and left in the middle of an op. But she can’t. Pulling her coat tight, she tries to ignore the feeling of hands pawing at her body, of being nothing more than a doll, a puppet. Of being used, hollowed, possessed and discarded. But those aren't her memories, even though they feel so real. They’re not.

 

 

It takes her a ridiculous amount of time to notice she’s being tailed. Her heart seizes, but it's impossible, the Red Room couldn't possibly - her mind spins, and she fights to keep her composure, to not give away that she's noticed her shadow.

This is not the first time she has been followed, of course not. With her reputation she has no shortage of enemies. Taking a corner, she manages to catch a shadow of movement from the rooftop behind her. Assessing her options, she decides to take this to familiar ground, and continues on to the safe house. 

She makes it to the doorstep, careful to keep out of direct line of sight, though if her shadow hasn’t killed her yet, they're probably waiting for close range to make things personal.

She is wrong.

Only instinct has her ducking out of the way of the – arrow? – that comes flying past her head, so close she could swear that it brushes her hair before piercing itself into the doorframe.

She rolls, grabbing a hidden knife and throwing it in her assailants direction by the time she stands, bursting through the window to her left. She snatches the machete from under the couch, small dagger in her other hand, and prepares for close range combat. 

As predicted, her would-be killer comes into the house cautiously, bow raised and arrow notched, scanning the room. Going by the form in black Kevlar, she assumes he's male, and feels almost disappointed that it isn’t her sisters after all, just another enemy she’s made over the years. Suddenly bone tired, but not ready to go down without a fight, she doesn't give him the chance to reach for the gun in his thigh holster before launching herself at him, kicking the bow out of his hands.

He is obviously well trained, as despite being caught off balance he responds quickly and scrambles for her throat. Following through with a sharp jab at her midsection, she notes his preference for long range weaponry hasn’t deterred him from proficiency in hand-to-hand. Blocking his punches, she parries with her knives, trying to catch him off balance. Fainting a jab to the right, she stabs left, but he blocks, and almost gets an elbow to her face for her troubles. With a well placed kick to his knee, she manages to slip through and catch his right arm with her knife, slicing deeply into his bicep.  Not what she was aiming for, but she'll take it. He gasps and fights the instinct to cover the newly wounded arm. Still, the pause is all she needs. Going for the throat, she managed to scratch a thin line before he grabs her with his left arm, pinning her back against his chest in a strange parody of the embrace her mark had had her in earlier that evening. She struggles against him. Desperate, she makes a grab for his hair and holds his head as she smashes the back of her skull into his face, crushing his nose. They struggle, and she manages to catch his injured knee with the hilt of her machete before slipping out of his reach, turning to face him once more.

They size each other up, his face is bloody, his weight leaning mostly on one leg, and her arm dangling from its socket. She can feel a bruised rib, possibly broken, from a rather vicious punch thrown earlier and she grins, spitting blood from her mouth and gears up for another round. She hasn’t felt this alive, hasn’t had this much of a challenge in years, and going from the look in his eyes, neither has her opponent. They rush at each other, blocking and dodging, arms reaching and legs tangling. There is no structure to this dance. It’s rough, and bloody, full of adrenaline and emotion, with no time for proper form and calculated throws. They both know it will only be the slightest misstep that will win this match. And there it is. Her adversary places too much weight on his injured leg and it buckles. Not enough to bring him down, but enough for her to sweep his feet from under him in a roundhouse kick. He grunts in pain as his broken nose takes the abuse on the carpet, and she launches herself at him, keeping him on the ground by snaking her right arm around his windpipe, keeping him in a choke-hold while her other hand pinches onto a pressure point at the base of his neck. He struggles, and she puts her left foot down on his injured leg, making it spasm sharply.

 “Yield,” she says, her voice hoarse and trembling.

“Never,” he mumbles, and he can feel her answering grin by the way she tightens her hold against him. He uses the motion to twist as hard as he can, reversing their positions, her lying on her back, and him on top of her, his arm against her throat and hips on her waist, keeping her firmly on the ground.

She waits for him to snap her neck, waits for him to pull out his gun and shoot her brains out of her skull, tries to prepare herself for it. Instead, he keeps staring at her, looking at her right in the eye.

Both high on adrenaline, pupils dilated, they stare at each other, waiting for the other to make a move. She watches as his gaze drifts down to her lips, and she shift against him, feeling the hardness of him against her waist. His gaze snaps back up to meet her eyes. She shifts again, and watches as his eyes dilate further, his breath catches.

Natalia doesn’t know who moved first, doesn’t care. They're kissing,  passionately, violently, as deadly as before. His hands in her hair, hers on his chest, she manages to roll them over so she’s on top, ripping their mouths away only to gasp for air. They roll again, groaning and laughing slightly as they fight each other for dominance, bumping into the couch and almost falling against the fireplace before settling on clawing at each others clothing instead. His shirt undone, pants trapped at his knees, her dress rucked up to her hips, they move against each other in rhythm, panting and shaking, before collapsing against the carpet. Natalia looks at him, adrenaline and endorphin's beginning to fade from her system, and sees him looking back at her, his blue eyes watching her. She feels unsettled, bringing back her actions earlier this evening, of leaving the hotel without looking back. She doesn’t want to name it, doesn’t want to think about what this means, and so she doesn’t.

Rolling off of him with a sigh, she pushes herself up from the carpet and makes her way to the toilet, fairly confident he's not going to kill her while her back is turned.

 

“So, who do you work for?” she says as she peels her dress down to her waist, back still turned away from him.

She hears him huff a sigh, and roll himself into standing to follow her into the bathroom. Coming behind her, she refuses to tense from where she’s washing her hands at the sink. She can’t help but stiffen, however, when he places a gentle kiss against her injured shoulder. Straightening, she looks at him sharply through the mirror.

 “May I?” he says, avoiding her gaze and tapping on her dislocated arm. She grunts, and scowls at him. He ignores this also, only moving to get a better grip on her shoulder before finally meeting her eyes in the mirror. She huffs angrily when he makes no move to continue.

“Well go on then,” she says, and he chokes a laugh before pushing her shoulder back into place with a sickening pop. She takes notice of the pain and ignores it, placing a hand against her newly set shoulder, feeling in the joints for damage as she rotates her arm. She nods once in thanks, before turning off the tap and reaching for the shower.

She steps out of her dress, ignoring the sound he makes when he sees the various bits of weaponry hidden in her dress.

“Are you compensating for something or-?” He asks with a grin.

She shoots him an unexpressed look as she unbuckles from various holsters. “At least I'm not the one carrying a caveman’s weapon” she says, stepping into the shower.

She pushes her head under the spray, her nerves shot, and she can’t believe she’s doing this. Standing completely unarmed, and facing away from the unknown hostile who has attempted to kill her not even an hour before. She does her best to ignore this discomfort, and reaches for the soap instead of the silent alarm embedded in the shower tile.

“So, who sent you?” She asks after a significantly long pause.

“I’m on contract for an interested third party,” he says ambiguously, watching her curiously from his spot, sitting on his haunches on top of the toilet seat. The look she throws him is completely unimpressed. He snorts. “They were concerned that your actions were getting, shall we say, too close to our assets, and wanted things taken care of.” He shrugs, as if talking about his orders to terminate her were something of everyday occurrence. Maybe they were. “Obviously that didn’t happen.”

“And why not? Why didn't you -” she can't help but ask, but struggles to get the words out either and so avoids his gaze by grabbing the shampoo and starting to lather up her hair, which had started growing almost too long. She would need to cut it soon. And dye it back to red. She hated being blonde.

“I didn’t, because I knew you would let me. Kill you.” he says finally.

She swallows, not refuting this, and keeps her gaze firmly fixed on the bottle of shampoo in her hands.

 “I was the same way, before Phi- Agent Coulson, I mean, well, not the same obviously, but I didn’t, I couldn’t see the point in continuing on, and he, well, -” he sighs, frustrated that the words aren’t coming out. “SHIELD is good. I mean, ya they’re corporate, and can be shady as fuck, but they've got their values, and an actual decent moral compass, which means I get to do good by people more often than not, and look, I've never made the recruitment speech before, just, just take my word for it that I don't regret it, switching over.”

She debates relieving him of his misery and climbing out of the shower, but decides on enjoying warm water on her skin for a moment longer.

 “What I’m trying to say,” he starts again after taking a deep, calming breath, “is that I think you deserve a second chance too.”

There’s a heavy silence between the two of them, before she burst out laughing, forehead hitting the shower wall.

 “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says between hiccups.

He shakes his head, and saying nothing, but eyes filled with an emotion, compassion, pity, she can’t tell which. She hasn't had someone look at her like that since - she can’t remember.

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until she feels his hand on her shoulder. She shakes him off abruptly, moving away and shoving her face back into the spray of the shower. His arms circle her, and he holds her there, despite her attempts to shrug him off,bringing up memories of their fight not even half an hour before. She’s shaking. Her earlier betrayal of the Red Room crashes down on her, and she realizes she truly has no other place to go. It's not fear, she realizes, that she could be feeling, but courage. And so she straightens and turns to look at him, shrugging out of his arms and stepping out of the shower without saying yes, but without killing him either,no that has to count for nothing. She towels off, trying to shake the nonsense words Gryffindor out of her conscious, before stating “If I'm going to do this, if I'm going to follow you,” she says, sensing more than feeling his hopeful gaze turn towards her, and honestly how this man could be on the field when he wears his emotions so plainly she has no idea. “If I'm going to do this, I need to know more about what the hell I'll be getting into. You are going to tell me all that you know about SHIELD, all that there is to know. If you lie to me, or if I decide I am not interested, I will chop off your head and send it back to them on a shining platter.”

It's an empty threat, but he's good enough not to say anything. She has nowhere else to go, she’s nowhere near ready to be going anywhere, let alone following the man who tried to kill her back to his third party that knew enough about her to issue a hit on her name. But what’s one more new start, one more new face to someone who doesn’t even know who she is? So she nods, and his answering grin is blinding.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you think!


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